Awakenings
by BirdBrain711
Summary: Sometimes the most dangerous thing of all is the promise of a happy ending. AU after 1.07.
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: Awakenings (1/?)

AUTHOR: BirdBrain711

PAIRING: Emma/Graham

RATING: T

SUMMARY: This place has drawn her in, broken down her defenses, and now she feels wounded, awash in hopelessness. AU after 1.07.

NOTE: Emma/Graham fans – I promise this fic will make you happy, but it's not going to be an instant gratification kind of thing. I hope you'll come along for the ride. Also, fair warning – I'm a graduate student, so I might not always be able to update super fast. But I promise I have a plan for this story, and procrastination is a very powerful thing. ;)

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><p>Chapter One<p>

Two weeks earlier, Emma stood in this office and felt the ground lurch beneath her feet. She remembers vividly the slight struggle to affix the deputy badge to the waistband of her jeans, how she'd pushed, felt the gentle give as it slid into place, her key to existing within the intricate fabric of this town. And then the world had moved, as if in synchronous echo, amplified thousand-fold. It had been enough to make her question for a moment, Henry's words reverberating through her mind even as the aftershocks had died away to nothing. Enough to make her feel—for a single instant—as though she might actually be changing the very fabric of the universe.

Now, with the cold floor beneath her knees and her head filled with throbbing pain, she feels as though the earth might be moving once more, coming apart at the seams. Graham's skin is still warm—deceptively warm—as she presses her fingers to his neck, clumsily searching for a pulse. But all she feels is the rush of her own blood in her veins, and wisps of a lecture on first-aid play at the edge of her awareness, a forgotten course she'd attended on CPR and other techniques which were supposed to bring people back from the dead. At the time it had seemed like the kind of skill set someone who got into as much trouble as she did ought to have. But she'd dropped out after the second class, and forgotten everything else besides.

Instead she shakes him again, violently, so that his head lolls to the side as if he's been transformed into some horrifying parody of a rag doll. It is as though someone has simply flipped a switch, snipped a thread, so that he was here one moment—in the midst of becoming more alive than ever before—and gone the next, snuffed into nothingness even with the flush of pleasure still illuminating his skin.

Rocking back on her heels, Emma becomes suddenly aware that she is crying, her throat raw—from shouting his name, she realizes with a jolt, though the sound of her own voice has been outside of her consciousness. She is filled with a sick terror, as though she has been violated, betrayed. She is alone now and she has been alone for so long, but suddenly it seems certain that nothing will ever be good again, and she wishes she could curl into a ball under the thick folds of a comforter and pretend that time has come to a halt, the way she did when she was a little girl.

Looking down at Graham's body again, she feels as though she might vomit, but instead the sobs just keep coming, painful and strong, so that it seems she is being shaken by the same force she used to try and rouse him from death. Emma thinks she ought to get off the floor, and she ought to call someone who handles things like this, but that's _his_ job. _Her_ job now, and it feels utterly insurmountable.

She isn't sure how much time has passed when the sound of the door swinging open rouses her from her dazed grief. Emma lurches to her feet, the room swimming before her as the pain in her head reasserts itself and she struggles to find her equilibrium. She cannot see who it is immediately, and realizes with a fresh shock that the rest of the world is still functioning outside, unaware of what has happened. Unaware of the way it seems that her life has come crashing down in a sudden collapse. She half expects the intruder to be an oblivious resident making a complaint about illegal parking, or a noisy party. Someone expecting her to be here, doing her job, as though her life hasn't been turned upside down this day. A little cyclone of anxious thoughts kicks up in the back of her mind, wondering how she will tell anyone what has happened here.

But when the footsteps reach the office doorway, it is Regina standing in the dim light, looking utterly unruffled, not a hair out of place, as though she has spent the evening sitting behind her desk, instead of in the woods. Emma feels the stir of anger instantly, the depth of her grief igniting into a hot wave of rage. Her gut tells her instantly that Regina is somehow responsible for what has happened here; irrational as it may be, no other explanation seems worth even a second's consideration.

"What the hell did you do?" The words slip out before Emma has even become consciously aware of them, and she finds herself shocked at the sound of her own voice, tattered at the edges. She doesn't regret the accusation; everything is still too raw for any attempt at niceties.

Regina pauses a few feet away, regarding her with an aloofness cool enough to chill the room. Every hint of the odd vulnerability Emma had glimpsed in the forest has been erased now, replaced by a freshly ironclad veneer. "What makes you think I have any idea what you're talking about?"

"Graham is _dead_," Emma breathes, finding that speaking the words aloud at last only strengthens the venom bubbling up in the pit of her stomach. Gone is the terrible feeling of helplessness, at least so long as she holds tight to this moment and the bitterness of hatred.

Regina looks pointedly at his body on the floor, now lying at a grotesquely odd angle from Emma's futile attempts at resuscitation. Something tightens in her face, as though the depths of her eyes have taken in the room's reaching shadows.

"So it would appear," she says simply.

"Graham is dead," Emma repeats, a perverse relief in the word, as though the sting of hearing it reverberating through the still room marks the limit of her pain. "He just—_drops dead_. And you suddenly appear out of nowhere, not acting the least bit surprised. Convenient, don't you think?"

Shaking her head, Regina laughs, a slow, dangerous sound, almost a hiss. "Your audacity never ceases to amaze me, Miss Swan. I simply happened to be walking home this evening and heard you shouting for help. You sounded practically hysterical."

"I wasn't calling for help," Emma replies slowly, suspicion growing, though she can't truly be sure of what she might or might not have done in the past few desperate minutes. "And I _know_ where you were coming from. If you were on your way home, you shouldn't have needed to come this way at all. Or did you get lost in your own town, Madam Mayor?"

The ghost of a sneer curls Regina's lower lip; there is a hint of something wild in her, a predator foaming at the mouth. "And what, exactly, are you implying, Miss Swan? That while visiting my father's grave, I somehow managed to reach out and kill the Sheriff? You must think I'm _awfully_ powerful, to make an accusation like that. You know, _deputy_, if you insist on bringing up foul play—Well, a careful look at the evidence would point to _you_ as the killer here. You seem like an ambitious woman, intent on taking what isn't yours. Maybe you wanted a quick promotion."

Emma flies into motion the instant the words register, so blinded by helpless frustration that she nearly stumbles over Graham's body on the floor, another reminder that this nightmare is real. She has always been stupid in anger, and her hands connect with Regina's shoulders for the second time this night, pushing until her back is pressed against the wall. Regina does not move, offers no resistance, doesn't even flinch as Emma brings up a knee to connect sharply with her stomach. Her breath leaves in a rush, and she doubles over, but there is a strange satisfaction in her eyes that brings Henry's insistent warnings to mind: _Evil witch_.

Emma is suddenly certain that she is going to kill Regina, slowly, feeling all the agony of hopelessness she has created in her own town. Never before has Emma seen herself capable of such abject cruelty, and there is something empowering, intoxicating about it. She has failed in all of her attempts to be honorable, to be responsible, to be _good_ here in Storybrooke. Perhaps, then, brutality is all that is left. Keeping Regina in her peripheral vision, Emma turns over her left shoulder, reaching for the gun that Graham kept hidden in the desk drawer, for emergencies. That it has remained there, untouched, for years speaks volumes about Storybrooke, but now everything is changing, shifting beneath her feet. Slowly aiming, she clicks off the safety. It is practically a shot at point-blank range, and there will be no missing, no turning back. Yet still Regina has not moved, has made no attempt at escape. Too easy.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Henry's voice now, from the doorway, filled with utter terror.

Emma freezes, instantly fumbling to put the safety back onto the gun, its mere presence far too risky with him in the room. Regina's smile grows again, and suddenly Emma realizes that this has been the plan all along. Played yet again, and she feels the beginnings of fresh tears prick the backs of her eyes. This place has drawn her in, broken down her defenses, and now she feels wounded, awash in hopelessness.

"Henry—" she begins, with the intention of warning him to stay away, but he has already seen everything here, wide-eyed gaze fixed on Graham's body as his breathing quickens.

"_You_ did this." Emma rounds on Regina again, the gun held slack at her side, useless now. "You brought him here. You _knew _what I'd do."

Regina straightens, sedately smoothing the wrinkles out of her blouse. "Henry wanted to see you. I was feeling charitable, so I thought I'd walk him down here myself. This town can be dangerous, Miss Swan. _You_ of all people should know that."

But Henry is already running toward the door, and all Emma can think to do is shove the gun back into the desk drawer and follow him, Regina be damned. She catches up to him in the street; he hasn't made much of an attempt to get very far, perhaps guessing that she would follow. Hot tears are spilling down his cheeks, and Emma brushes away the thought that this night will haunt the remainder of his childhood.

"Henry," she tries again, but then finds that she has nothing further to say, no explanation for this injustice, nothing that will just make him _feel better_.

"_You_ did this," he says, before she can think of anything else.

Emma rocks back on her heels, reeling as though he might have physically hit her. "What?"

"_You_ were supposed to break the curse," he spits, crying harder. "_You_ were supposed to bring back the happy endings. But you didn't believe me, and now she killed Sheriff Graham because of _you_!"

"Henry!" Emma throws up her hands. "This is _crazy_!"

But he is already off and running again, and this time his words keep her rooted to the spot, too afraid of making the damage any more irreparable.

Somewhere in the distant night, a wolf howls in mourning.


	2. Chapter 2

TITLE: Awakenings (2/?)

NOTES: So, this chapter is something of a rock bottom. Hopefully you won't hate me (or Emma) too much. My next updates may not be as quick since I go back to work after this weekend, but I'll try my best.

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><p>Chapter Two<p>

"I don't want to talk about it."

It is half past eleven at night, and Emma has been hoping that Mary Margaret might have already gone to bed. For the past three days she has managed to avoid speaking to just about everyone, except about strict business. In a way it has been a welcome distraction, doing her best to take over both shifts, though the jail feels too quiet by day, and haunted by memories of Graham in the short time that she has known him. Weeks which now seem to stretch into an eternity. Now she is headed out again for the night after only a few hours of sleep, but the escape seems a relief.

Except for the fact that Mary Margaret has perched herself at the bottom of the stairs, mug of cinnamon-laced hot chocolate in hand and clearly intended as a therapeutic device.

"I'm serious," Emma insists, when she makes no move to clear the way to the door. "I have work to do."

"Emma." Mary Margaret's tone is laced with equal parts compassion and exasperation, and Emma cannot help feeling an instinctive twinge of guilt for causing her worry. "Storybrooke isn't going to fall apart if you take one night off. And besides, everyone knows where to find you if they're in desperate need of—I don't know, someone to pull a lost kitten out of a tree or something."

"I'm fine," says Emma shortly. "But I need to go to work."

Mary Margaret gets to her feet, though it makes little difference since she remains at the bottom of the stairs. "You're avoiding me. You've been avoiding me ever since Graham died. Which was fine at first. I mean, you need your space and I want to respect that. But you can't just deal with this by trying to ignore it."

"Ignore what?" Emma insists. A week ago she might have welcomed the opportunity to confide in Mary Margaret, but now even that simple act seems risky; the betrayal of overly optimistic advice has landed her here in the first place. "I'm not dealing with anything, except for the fact that I suddenly have way more work than I can possibly do by myself. So seriously, please just let me get on with it."

"Graham died," says Mary Margaret, very gently. "You started to open yourself up to him and he died. It was a shock to all of us, but especially to you. Please don't shut us all out now that you're trying to protect yourself again."

"I don't need to protect myself from anything," Emma snaps, suddenly infuriated by the attempt at sympathy. It feels like an invasion of her grief. "I barely knew him. It was sad. I'm over it."

"Emma," Mary Margaret repeats, and this time her disapproval is palpable.

"Come to think of it, I barely know you either." Emma brushes past her, a few feet from the door now. "So if I did have a problem, I'm not sure why you'd expect to be the one playing my therapist."

"And sniping at the people who care about you is really going a long way toward convincing us that you don't need help," Mary Margaret answers, an uncharacteristic note of sarcasm in her voice.

The hurt in her face is obvious, and Emma feels another momentary pang of regret at the way she is acting. Yet it seems the only way to keep anyone else from being harmed. The only way to protect herself. She is no stranger to tragedy, though her usual response is to simply vanish from the circumstances, to pack up as quickly as possible and start again someplace where the stakes are lower. But she finds herself unable to run this time, when it seems that Henry's wellbeing has been so precariously placed in her hands. When she is more than partially responsible for his misery. Now the only option seems self-imposed restraint, her body here where it must be, but her heart locked tightly away.

Instead of answering, Emma pulls open the door and steps out into the night. The air holds an odd chill, and for an instant she wishes she had thought to wear a thicker jacket. But the thought of going back inside now is absolutely unacceptable, and she reminds herself that the patrol car has perfectly decent heat if she needs it.

She has left the car parked out front of Mary Margaret's place, practically daring anyone to question her authority in driving it now. The key is chilly in her fingers when she digs it out of the pocket of her jeans, as though the metal might be impervious to her body heat. Emma holds her breath momentarily as she opens the driver's side door, instinctively bracing herself for the way that the scent of Graham's leather jacket seems to cling to the old upholstery, another fresh reminder of his sudden absence here. Slipping into the car, she closes the door quickly on the night, turning the key in the ignition and feeling the engine sputter to life, as though unaccustomed to her obeying her commands.

Mary Margaret is right; it is highly unlikely that she will have anything to do on her patrol tonight, or that there would be any consequences if she simply opted to stay inside and sleep. Yet Emma feels driven to the streets, unable to sit still in the aftermath of Graham's death, desperate for any action that feels remotely productive. Cruising slowly, she turns the car onto Main Street, where most of the store fronts are long closed down for the night, lights out. Granny's is the only place still showing some activity, Sidney Glass nursing something in a mug at the front table as Emma slows the car to look inside, and Ruby wiping down tables. The sheer normalcy of it all tugs at the emptiness which has been lurking in the pit of her stomach, threatening to expand once more into full-fledged grief. Stepping on the gas, Emma pulls away quickly, moving this time toward the hospital and the woods.

It is darker and quieter still out here, and she is nearly ready to turn around for a second circuit when the odd movement of a shadow catches her eye. It is just outside the soft light stretching from the hospital's doors, on the treeline of the forest. Shifting the car into park, Emma waits, watching, finding herself hoping irrationally that this will prove to be something, a distraction to show the town that she is needed here, to shift attention away from her personal failures.

She has nearly given up when the movement comes again, more quickly this time. It is too dark to make out from the car, and Emma switches it off, quietly climbing out but leaving the door ajar. A little thrill of adrenaline runs through her core as the shadows shift again, and she wonders momentarily what she will do if there is real danger here. She has left the gun in the desk at the jail, repulsed by it since her encounter with Regina and Henry. But she has never been one to plan ahead, and so Emma steps into the darkness with nothing but her instincts. The movement is coming from behind a tall bush, she realizes, and it is low to the ground. Slowing, she waits for her eyes to adjust, half expecting to find some sort of large animal.

"Hi Emma," comes a tentative voice out of the darkness, and she nearly jumps out of her skin as she suddenly places it.

"Henry! What the hell are you doing out here?" Her skin prickles with an overwhelming combination of relief and anger. She has not seen him since the night of Graham's death, allowing herself to think that the best course of action. "It's the middle of the night!"

"I was waiting for you!" he answers excitedly, emerging from behind the bush now. His clothes are covered in dirt, Emma realizes, and one knee of his pants is ripped.

"Out here?" Emma kneels to get a better look at him, suddenly more concerned than angry. "What happened to you?"

"I had to make sure _she_ wasn't following me," Henry continues, barely missing a beat. "We're going to have to be even more careful now. She absolutely can't find out!"

"Henry. Find out what? You have to slow down."

"You mean you don't know yet? You broke the curse! At least—part of it. I'm pretty sure that's what happened." The words tumble out in an excited whisper, still practically nonsensical.

"What are you talking about?" Emma insists, becoming afraid that the trauma of the past few days has affected him worse than she'd guessed.

"The Sheriff is back!" he answers, voice rising despite his attempts to keep the volume down. "He's been hiding in the woods. The wolf came to show me! You did it!"

"Shut up!" Emma explodes, catching herself a moment too late. His claim seems utterly cruel, designed to cut in the worst possible way, and she finds herself wondering whether this is some sort of revenge for her perceived failure.

"What?" Henry recoils, looking shocked.

"Graham is dead," Emma hisses, suddenly wanting to see her own hurt mirrored in his face, though the very realization of her intentions sickens her. "This is not a game."

"I'm not kidding!" Henry insists, voice rising petulantly. "He's not dead! He just can't come back to town because of the mayor. It's too dangerous. But you can help! Just go into the woods, and the wolves will show you."

"I'm taking you home right now," Emma says coldly, stepping back and waiting for him to follow.

"No!" he protests, predictably. "_You have to believe me_. Whatever you did, it's starting to break the curse! We can't just quit _now_!"

It feels as if something cracks in this moment; Emma finds herself completely and utterly exhausted, this conversation more painful than if he'd remained angry with her. Everything about the town seems a further torment tonight, and suddenly running doesn't seem so impossible. Especially when Henry seems incapable of seeing her as anything beyond a player in his fairytale fantasy, as anything _real_.

"I am _done_ with Operation Cobra," Emma answers. "I am done playing fairytale games and humoring your theories. Get in the car and let me take you home right now, or I will be gone by the time you wake up in the morning."

For a moment Henry does not move, the harshness of her words sinking in slowly. Emma regrets them instantly, knowing without question that she has now damaged any sort of relationship she might have had with him beyond repair. Yet she feels incapable of further grief, already having reached her limit, and now beginning to become miserably numb.

Henry says nothing this time, simply walks toward the car and climbs into it without meeting her eyes. He is silent as she drives back toward the mayor's house, and Emma feels as though she ought to say something, but there is nothing that will fix what she has done. It is almost a relief when he slides out the door again and runs up to the big house. She waits to see him go in the door before pulling away, not caring whether Regina catches sight of her car.

Afterward, she drives in circles through the town, trying not to see anything now, hoping simply to slip more completely into a numbness that will let her forget the pain of her mistakes. She ought never to have come here, Emma thinks, never let herself hope that she might ever be anything other than a terrible risk in Henry's life. She wishes now that she could deny being his mother, deny her own flesh and blood and instinct to keep him safe from herself.

She has nearly succeeded at losing herself in these thoughts when the shadows move again, this time darting in front of her car. Emma slams on the brakes reflexively, her heart suddenly pounding in her temples. Cutting the engine, she stumbles out of the car once more, fully expecting to find Henry here again, this time playing a game with his own life.

Instead she finds herself confronted by the silver wolf, its head cocked majestically to the side, single blood-red eye regarding her with an air of disapproval.

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><p><em>Reviews make my world go 'round. ;)<em>


	3. Chapter 3

TITLE: Awakenings (3/?)

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><p>Chapter Three<p>

Emma freezes as the wolf comes a step closer. He cocks his head to the side once more, now clearly beckoning her to follow as though imbued with an unnervingly human spirit.

"Why?" Emma whispers. "Why should I trust you?" She ought to feel like a fool, she thinks, talking to a wolf. And yet the wisdom shining in the depths of his eyes outweighs the doubt in her mind, so desperate is her need now for answers.

The wolf grunts, but does not reply outright. Instead he simply stares her down, the silence growing.

Emma feels the faintest tendril of hope beginning in the pit of her stomach, threatening to break through the shell of numbness she has been trying to build, a cocoon of safety against her own faults which she cannot change.

"I'm not coming," she insists suddenly, realizing the danger of letting herself become swept up in impossible thoughts. "This is ridiculous. It's cold, it's the middle of the night, and I'm not stupid enough to just go blindly following you into the woods. I'm going home."

This time the wolf moves lightning fast, darting out to grab the sleeve of her jacket, sharp teeth barely missing the skin of her wrist. Emma gasps, instincts screaming to run, but confronted by this creature, she does not dare to move. The wolf tugs, a delicate, calculated gesture, enough force to show her exactly what she is up against without doing any harm.

"Okay," she breathes, feeling dizzy with the sudden burst of adrenaline. "I'll come with you."

Without waiting for further confirmation, the wolf takes off toward the woods. Haltingly, Emma follows, struggling to keep up after three days of little sleep. The wolf wants to show her something here, she is certain, but it seems increasingly likely that whatever she finds will only deepen the hurt. She thinks of the mausoleum in these woods, of Regina's father buried there. Emma wonders how many other bodies might be concealed here.

A hundred feet past the treeline, every trace of light from the town is drowned out by dense foliage. It is a new moon, and the darkness is so thick that it is almost palpable, smooth and cold like silk. Roots seem to reach up from the ground to ensnare the toes of her boots, and Emma feels utterly off balance, disoriented and overwhelmed. She has lost the wolf already, rare panic rising in her chest over the realization that she is unable to turn back now, no matter what happens.

Pausing for a moment, she tries to listen for movement and finds it all around, the forest come to life by night. Reaching out, she finds the rough bark of a tree to her left, but nothing within arm's reach on the other side. Her palms are already raw from feeling her way, and she takes another tentative step forward.

The sound of twigs snapping comes loudly from behind, and Emma freezes again, suddenly certain that she is being followed. For a moment she tries to convince herself that it might be the wolf, having circled back to correct her path. But his feet are light and soft on the ground; the sounds which are growing nearer now are unmistakably human. Heartbeat thundering in her temples, Emma drops into a defensive posture, though she remains hopelessly blind.

For a moment nothing happens, silence all around as fear grows, filling her veins with ice. Then, out of nowhere, a hand rests on her shoulder, surprisingly light, neither threatening nor forceful.

"Emma!" she hears as she spins instinctively, and her knees feel suddenly weak as she identifies Graham's familiar accent. Henry's words echo again in her mind; she feels haunted by his reality lately, the possibility of magic playing on her own desolate wishes until the edge of her world seem to blur.

"Stop," she breathes, her mind instantly racing. She thinks that she must be hallucinating, her sleep-starved mind creating what she so desperately wants to find here.

"It's okay," Graham's voice comes again, sounding loud in the sudden stillness of the forest. All of the sounds Emma has been hearing on her disorienting journey out here have ceased, as though something is changing in the very fabric of the atmosphere, as if she might now be peering into another realm.

"You're dead," Emma says firmly, searching now for the anger to which she has been clinging, finding it like a familiar piece of armor. "You're dead and there is nothing I can do about it! Leave me alone."

"I'm sorry," he insists. "I'm sorry for what happened. I never meant for you to get hurt. I just—"

"Stop!" Emma snaps, clinging fiercely to the anger, feeling it grow stronger as she resists any thread of hope. "I don't want anyone's sympathy. I don't want anyone's help. I just want to be left alone before anyone else gets hurt!"

"Emma."

Graham reaches for her hand again, through the darkness, and this time she lashes out, feeling as though all of her wounds have been laid bare, utterly unable to heal. Reflexively she lunges toward the sound of his voice, expecting to find nothing but spectral emptiness. Instead she collides with the warm solidness of his body, and he grunts as her unexpected attack knocks both of them to the ground. Her breath leaves in a rush, and Emma lies still, momentarily stunned. But Graham is laughing, his arms wrapping around her as the familiar scent of that damned leather jacket washes over her.

"Not a ghost, then," Emma gasps, feeling shaken to her core.

"Definitely not," Graham answers, still chuckling, his exhalation warm against the skin of her neck, and she shivers. "Are you okay?"

"I'm—this is _crazy_," Emma answers, still unable to risk happiness, or even any sort of significant relief. "You were _dead_. Your heart stopped. I felt it."

Without warning, Graham gets to his feet, pulling her up with surprising strength. "Come with me."

"Where are we going?" asks Emma, apprehension growing again. Finding him here has not made the forest any less dark or impenetrable.

"Do you trust me?" Graham asks softly, still holding both of her hands firmly in his.

"For all I know, you're a ghost," she answers stubbornly, and he laughs again.

"Just come with me."

Emma follows blindly as he starts off through the trees, guiding her quickly but flawlessly. She wonders how he is able to see out here, to be so certain of where he is taking her when she is entirely blind. Being out of control now feels dangerous, though she knows she has been slipping further and further into irrationality in the days since his death.

In the distance, a pale, greenish light begins, a shape emerging from the void. It grows stronger as they draw nearer, and Emma finds that she is able to make out the shapes of the tree trunks now. They cross a few hundred feet more before Graham draws to a halt, and she catches her breath as she realizes that they are facing a rocky overhang at the mouth of a cave, the light coming from a phosphorescent lichen growing along its edge.

Moving again, Graham leads her just inside the small shelter, and at last she is able to see his face as her eyes adjust to the dim light. He looks eerily unchanged, as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened. But Emma knows the truth, is certain of it, and she feels the beginning of a headache starting behind her eyes.

"Sit," he instructs softly, and she sinks carefully onto the rocky floor, feeling the chill of the night creeping up through the thin fabric of her jeans. Her legs feel like rubber, and she is certain now that she would not be able to run away if her life depended upon it.

"Your heart stopped," she says softly, as he settles beside her, close, so that their shoulders are nearly touching. "I _know_."

"And yet here we are," Graham answers, voice strangely flat, distant.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" she presses. "Because this—I'm pretty damn sure it's impossible."

"I don't _know_ what happened," says Graham, frustration creeping into his tone for the first time. "All I wanted was to understand what's happening to me, and I still don't."

"Then tell me what you do know." Emma reaches for his hand, then stops herself, crossing her arms over her chest instead.

"I was there with you," he answers quietly, looking away from her to stare out at the forest. The wolf stands a few hundred feet off now, eyes just visible in the darkness. "And then I just—wasn't. There was nothing, like going to sleep. Next thing I knew, I was out here."

"In the woods?" asks Emma, swallowing, feeling the sense of loss rise up again as his words resurrect memories of the moments she has been trying with all her might to lock away, forget.

Graham exhales audibly. "Yes. In the ground, more specifically."

"You were buried—alive?" Emma feels her breath catch, as though the darkness might be sticking in her lungs.

"You said I was dead," Graham says softly. "And I believe it. There was—earth, everywhere. In my eyes, my mouth. I thought I was in hell. I think I would have suffocated if it wasn't for the wolves digging me out."

When he turns to look at her again, there is an intensity in his eyes that makes her feel dizzy, as though she is slowly becoming untethered from the reality she has always trusted. Nothing that has happened this week makes any sort of sense; there is no way to rationalize his sitting here now, telling her how he has survived the certainty of death. All of her instincts tell her to reject this moment, to get away as quickly as possible, before this can all be revealed as a cruel illusion. Yet she cannot bring herself to pull away now, when she has been given this moment, when she has wanted it so terribly. Emma reaches for his hand again, finding it surprisingly warm as he laces their fingers, his own shaking ever so slightly.

"Henry's book says that it's impossible to leave Storybrooke," says Graham, the pad of his thumb playing along the curve of her palm. "Maybe death isn't a way out, either. Maybe—_this_ is hell."

Something shifts then, Graham's desperate helplessness mingling with her own until Emma cannot stand the distance which remains between them. Though every defense she has cultivated within herself is crying out for danger, she leans to kiss him, needing suddenly to prove that hope still lives here, buried deep though it may be.

He responds instantly, hand coming up to tangle in her hair, and Emma closes her eyes, breathing him in, acutely aware that this moment could be stolen from them at any time. But walking away now seems impossible, beyond consideration. A low, needy sound slips from his throat as she pushes his jacket off of his shoulders, slips a hand beneath the hem of his shirt, finding the comforting solidness of his skin.

"Emma," he murmurs, as she presses him back against the soft earth of the forest floor. "Whatever happens, I don't want you getting hurt again."

"Shut up," she whispers savagely, catching his lip delicately between her teeth as she kisses him again, determined to shut out the rest of the world if only for a little while.

He groans helplessly, hands coming up to catch hold of her hips as she undoes the button of her jeans.

Overhead, the cave's ceiling glows with a thousand tiny pinpricks of phosphorescent light, like stars fallen close to the Earth.


	4. Chapter 4

TITLE: Awakenings (4/?)

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><p>Chapter Four<p>

Emma wakes to the sun reaching unpleasantly into the cave, burning her eyes. For a moment she is utterly disoriented, the previous night's events seeming to have vanished with the darkness. The wolf is standing at the mouth of the cave, she realizes with a jolt of adrenaline. And Graham is gone, leaving her with a fresh sense of loss, sharply painful, though a part of her has expected it all along. She is willing to accept that she has simply become a victim of her own grief, has followed the wolf out here and fallen asleep, dreaming the impossible happy ending she so desperately craves. But as she sits up, entire body protesting her night spent on the ground, her fingers brush the cool inner lining of Graham's leather jacket.

Immediately Emma is filled with concern, hugging the jacket to her chest as she struggles to find her bearings, feeling as though it might be her lone remaining connection to her own sanity. She wonders what has happened during her time asleep, the creeping sense that she has missed something terrible beginning to overtake her. Twenty-four hours ago, it would have seemed utterly absurd, but out here among the mist-shrouded trees and delicate greenish rays of early morning sunlight, memories of Graham's miraculously warm fingers still whispering against her skin, Emma finds herself almost willing to believe that she has witnessed some sort of marvelous spell, whisked away with the midnight hour.

"Graham?" she calls, getting to her feet, and poking her head out of the cave.

It is early still, the sounds and smells of the forest all-encompassing. But she knows where she is now, the old toll bridge visible in the distance through the trees. Frowning, Emma closes her eyes for a moment, trying to remember more clearly that night with Graham and Mary Margaret, when they had found David at the river. She cannot recall seeing the delicate light of the phosphorescent lichen then.

"Graham?" Emma repeats, louder this time, but there is no answer to her call. She feels almost instinctively that he is no longer here with her, just as she had known the instant he'd died, ripped away from her with the suddenness of a lightning storm.

The wolf comes a few steps closer, baring his teeth now, a clear message that she is no longer welcome here. It is almost a relief, making her way toward the toll bridge and back onto the path into town. She feels confusion more than anything else, mingled with the heavy sadness that has enveloped her since his death. She has not allowed herself to feel any sense of joy in finding him out here, she realizes; even his fleeting touch has seemed laced with grief, an exquisite mix of ecstasy and torture.

Emma feels directionless when she emerges from the trees, startled to see the abandoned Sheriff's Department car still parked where she'd left it the previous night, practically in the middle of the road. For a moment she is surprised that it has not been towed or ticketed, then realizes that responsibility is her own. Most of the town has yet to begin stirring, and she climbs into the car in silence, hoping that no one has seen it during the night and become suspicious. Still unable to face Mary Margaret after her own disaster, Emma drives slowly toward the jail.

Parking in front, she straightens her jacket and steps out of the car, sensing eyes on her back instantly. When she turns, she finds Mr. Gold regarding her from a few feet away, a look on his face as though he might be capable of seeing clear into her mind. Emma is certain that he was not here mere moments ago, when she pulled into the parking lot, and she feels a growing sense of unease over how long he might have been watching her unseen.

"Good morning, Miss Swan." Gold smiles, all superficial cordiality. "You're up early today."

"So are you," Emma counters, cautiously. "I was just about to go in to work. Did you need something from the Sheriff's Department?"

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you." He comes a few steps closer, lowering his voice just enough to make his next statement seem like a threat. "I noticed the Sheriff's Department had some business in the forest last night."

Emma does not answer, forcing herself to meet his gaze and stand her ground.

"I hope you found what you were looking for," he continues, voice scarcely above a whisper now.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" she asks, feeling her pulse quicken.

"A lot of things can be found by simply getting lost," Gold answers. "There are treasures in those woods, you know. But you must be very careful with them."

"I am not lost," Emma says tightly. "And I have a lot of work to do. So if you'll let me get on with it…"

"Are you a believer, Miss Swan?" he asks, a bit sharply. "You know, there are those who would tell you that there's magic here."

For a moment Emma is silent, still trying to feel out what sort of a game he is trying to play. "I believe there are real people hurting here. I believe there might be real evil."

Gold's smile widens, slowly. "Sometimes the most dangerous thing of all is the promise of a happy ending."

"Then it's a good thing I don't believe in them," Emma snaps, then turns and walks away without giving him the chance to say anything further.

It is a relief to step inside the front door of the jail, the keys to the building a cool comfort in her hand. It makes her feel as though she still has some measure of power over something in this town, even as the rest of her hastily-constructed life here threatens impending collapse. Taking a breath, she pauses for a moment, glancing at her reflection in the old mirror which hangs on the wall by the coat closet, and halfheartedly running a hand through her hair. There is a smudge of dirt on her left cheek, and she rubs at it, surprised when it gives way to reveal a delicate scratch underneath. It is not so much that she cares about her appearance this morning, but allowing the town to find out that she has spent the night on forest floor will generate exactly the sort of attention she hopes desperately to avoid.

The only warning she gets is a soft release of breath, almost a chuckle from the main room. Emma whirls to find Regina sitting serenely behind the desk which once belonged to Graham, nearly invisible in the dim light creeping in around the curtains. In hindsight—which kicks in the instant she catches sight of the mayor's sharp silhouette—Emma thinks she ought to have known this was coming. She has a knack for twisting the knife in precisely the right way to produce maximum suffering.

"What did you do to my son?" Regina starts in immediately, not bothering with any sort of pretense this time.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Emma feels exhausted suddenly, all of her adrenaline spent. "Get out of my office."

"Henry ran away last night," says Regina, standing her ground, entirely unfazed. "Just after dinner. I sent him upstairs to do his homework. When I went to check on him, he was gone. Apparently he managed to climb out his window somehow. I'm sure I don't need to further impress upon you how dangerous this sort of behavior is for a boy his age, Miss Swan."

Emma resists the urge to cringe at the sound of her name spoken by yet another hostile voice. "I am aware of that, Madam Mayor. I'm the one who found him and brought him home on my patrol of the town last night, so if anything, you should be thanking me."

Though the sting of her argument with Henry has scarcely faded in the past twelve hours, she has firmly convinced herself that she has acted in his own best interests, especially considering the most recent events in the town. Especially if Graham is alive. _Especially_ if he has managed to survive some bizarre attack on his life. The last thing she wants now is for Henry to become any further embroiled in potential danger, and if that means hurting him to keep him uninvolved, then she is resolved to do it, forcing back the tiny voice of doubt in the back of her mind, which says this is nothing more than an excuse for her own failure in her new role as parent.

"That's funny." Regina crosses her arms. "Because he came home crying about something that _you_ did. That's not very professional, deputy."

"All I did was bring him home," says Emma quietly.

"See, it's not that I'm surprised, Miss Swan." Regina smiles, slowly. "I always expected you to let him down. I just thought you'd have the good sense to be more subtle about it. Get too busy to see him, or slip town when he wasn't looking. But this—Well, sometimes your incompetence is truly astounding."

"What did you do to Graham?" Emma interrupts, retreating once more into anger. Regina is avoiding, she thinks, striking where she expects to find weakness. She remembers now Graham's words in the forest, the look of horror in his eyes. And if Regina truly knows everything, Emma wonders whether she might be suddenly feeling threatened. Using Henry's wellbeing when in reality, she is more concerned for herself.

"I hardly think that's an appropriate question," Regina snaps, smile vanishing. "He

was a good man. He understood responsibility, unlike you. His death was a great loss to Storybrooke. And you're deflecting."

"His body," Emma presses. "What did you do with his body? I know you made the funeral arrangements. I read it in that self-congratulatory piece you had Sidney Glass put in the paper."

"Tragically, he had no family," says Regina. "The responsibility fell to me to give him a proper burial. Which you might have known, had you bothered to attend the service."

"Really? He had no family? Or did _you_ drive away anyone that cared about him?" The words land with the satisfying weight of a solid punch, and Emma continues. "Where would I go if I wanted to put flowers on his grave? Even _if_ he has a headstone in that graveyard of yours, I'm betting the real answer would be _the woods_."

Regina opens her mouth to reply, but is interrupted by the door flying open. Her entire demeanor shifts instantaneously, all traces of venom vanishing, replaced by the well-practiced façade of benevolent public figure. Emma feels a moment of fleeting jealousy, wishing her own defenses could be so strong.

Henry is standing in the doorway, the look of excitement on his face superseding any anxiety she's had over seeing him again after their last confrontation. He does not even pause at the sight of Regina, though she certainly has not expected to find him intruding on their conversation.

"Emma, you need to come outside right now!" Henry takes hold of her hand and tugs forcefully.

"What is going on?" Emma hesitates.

"Just come outside!"

This time she allows herself to be pulled along, heart racing as she follows. Henry leads her to the edge of the parking lot, where a white-faced Mary Margaret is standing with Graham. He looks terribly disheveled, dead leaves clinging to his hair, the right sleeve of his shirt entirely shredded, revealing a long, bloodied cut underneath.

"What the hell are you doing?" Emma demands, instantly terrified, for what has happened to him in her absence, and what danger he has put himself in by being here now. "What is going on here? Don't tell me you don't know! You obviously know more than I do, and I deserve an explanation."

"I'm sorry," breathes Graham, in a voice she scarcely recognizes. "I'm sorry. I don't even know who you are."


End file.
